


the itch

by thebrotherswholoved



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, Episode: s04e06 Yellow Fever, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Sam/Dean - Freeform, Wincest - Freeform, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 12:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrotherswholoved/pseuds/thebrotherswholoved
Summary: "supernatural," episode 0406 "yellow fever"...with a twist.dean cannot stop scratching at his arm. in a race to see who can out-mother-hen the other, sam wins this round by trying to distract his brother from the scratches on his wrist, wood chips in his throat, and the world crashing down around him.if you talk about it, it's bound to go away: what's your greatest fear?





	the itch

**Author's Note:**

> I'm re-watching random episodes that I really, really enjoyed because my transition is kinda rocky right now (ftm), and I couldn't stop thinking about an au!episode. so, now you get this abomination (please validate me). 
> 
> oh, yeah. if you want regular snazzy content, follow my tumblr @/thebrotherswholoved. if that's where you just came from, yay you! have a cookie:)

Dean is scratching his arm. Just like he has for the last three hours, incessantly and irately. His fingernails drag across raw skin and flesh wounds in a back-and-forth pattern, new superficial cuts surfacing with every centimeter touched. He's far too distracted by the damned itching to care about the blood, pain, or the knocking at the bathroom door.

The noise from the handle jiggling with the hand on the knob on the other side is what brings him back to his senses. Unfortunately, coming to his senses also means coming to his _senses_. He feels a stinging pain on his left forearm and is met with the sight of deep, gaping, and bloody slashes caused by hours upon hours of ceaseless scratching. There's blood droplets still dripping from his arm and landing in a pool of the stuff on the tile next to the closed toilet lid where he sits.

He reaches out to touch the wounds but his attention goes to his fingernails, which have layers of caked blood under them, fresh and old, and the pressure is beginning to cause a dull ache. Not that he would've noticed before.

It's not the wound or the mess that scares him. Hell, he couldn't care less; it's not like he hasn't cleaned up worse in a motel room or tended to worse battle scars (typically, Sam does that stuff, though). The fact that he did this to _himself_ is enough to add a few salty tears to the small puddle of blood below him. Even when he's not in his right mind he can understand that he's not supposed to be here—not supposed to be _alive_.

He should be in hell. He should have meat hooks in his shoulders and gashes in his flesh. He should be Satan's chew toy and Alistair's...well, that's too painful to bring up. He should be reliving those 40 years in hell every day for the rest of time. And he was—until that stupid angel in a dirty trench coat put his soul back in the pine box.

Sam's knocks grow louder and louder until Dean's convinced he'll put a hole in the thing with his Lenny strength complex. Numbly in pain **(a/n: oxymoron time, bitches)** , he trudges to the door and turns the lock. Sam doesn't notice at first that he unlocked the thing and is nothing short of surprised when the door swings open to his fist, revealing Dean...or, what _was_ Dean.

"Oh my god," the younger rushes over to his wounded counterpart, grabs his wrist, and gawks at the sight. "What the hell did you do?!"

Dean's weirded out—it's not like he tried to off himself. He yanks his arm away and walks past his brother into the main room. "Scratchin' the itch."

Sam already has three rolls of gauze, butterfly sutures, elastic bandages, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and gauze sheets in hand by the time the elder sits down on the bed—what can he say, he's prepared. He sets his supplies down and scoots beside Dean, who's holding his bloodied wrist at the joint and thumbing the skin with his nail.

Sam promptly lays his brother's arm across his lap, disregarding the blood now staining his jeans, and cleans the many, many scratches in the raw skin. Dean winces with every dab of that damn disinfectant on his arm but manages as Sam clasps the larger wounds together with the butterfly sutures and finishes the job with a flawless double-back tie of gauze wrap. They've done this gig long enough to have more experience than many medical students.

"There," the taller whispers as he moves Dean's arm from his own lap to his thigh with profound gentleness.

Dean can only stare at his now-off-limits forearm with nothing on his mind but the urge to scratch his own skin off. An empath, Sam catches on quickly and returns the injured limb to his lap.

"Bobby's on it right now," Sam assures him, but earns nothing more than a derisive scoff in reply. They meet eyes and Sam swallows. "You're gonna be okay."

Dean throws his head back in mock-laughter, green eyes illuminated by fear. "Dude, I coughed up a fucking wood chip and my arm looks like I went through a meat grinder. Can the positivity."

Both of them are at a loss. Bobby can only work so hard and it's a bigger job for just two old guys and a few rock-salt guns. Sam insisted on taking care of Dean, and he's glad he did; but, what the fuck should he do?

Dean starts picking at the gauze again and Sam instinctively takes his hand. Though the situation is awkward, he doesn't let go—instead, he laces their fingers together. "Don't look at it. Focus on me, okay?"

"I can only count the colors in your eyes so many times, Sammy," he sighs and, despite the circumstances, Sam's heart leaps like John the Baptist. "Besides, I'm gonna die anyway. God, I'm goin' out by, what, ghost AIDS? Gross."

"Don't you dare talk like that!" Sam's booming voice break the tension and emotion takes it's place. He clutches his hand tighter and drags his thumb over the semi-raw skin on the back of Dean's hand. "Okay, um...talk to me."

"About what?" The older man questions with a lack of curiosity.

"Maybe..." Sam rambles. He admittedly doesn't have any topic in mind. Boobs? Women? Neither apply, at least not to him since senior year, "...maybe, if we talk about it, it'll go away. Something has to work."

Dean groans and swats at the air. "Smells like estrogen. Can you just let me die in peace?"

"Nope, 'cause I'm a stubborn ass," he manages to crack a smile. "So, Dean Winchester: what's your greatest fear?"

Okay, Dean had to really hold back a laugh at his little brother's attempt at being a therapist. In reality, though? He doesn't wanna answer, because he knows his answer will push Sam away for good.

"My sister," he chortles.

Sam hits his shoulder and gently rubs the gauze-coated region. "Shuddup. Here: mine's clowns. They weird me the fuck out with their wigs and red noses and face-paint and...abnormally large shoe sizes—"

"Kinda like yours," he bites his lip, earning him another smack to the chest. Sam looks at him like he's expecting something, so he makes up a lie. "Fine, I'll bite. Mine's bra clasps because they're the last barrier between me and a good time."

The younger peers down at Dean with an 'I know you're lying, shithead' look and he all but cowers. "Dude, if you're dyin', at least be honest."

Well, he's not wrong: Dean's quite certain he's about to board the boat to cross the River Styx, so why would he keep this secret to himself any longer? It's been killing him—ironically—for years, and it'd feel orgasmic to get it off his shoulders. So, he caves.

"Fine, 'ya dick," his anxiety plays his ribs like a xylophone. "Mine's losin' you."

Sam cocks his head and loosens his grip on Dean's left hand. The itch is less painful now, compared to his nervousness, that is. "What're you talkin' about, De? You're never losing me. We're like Siamese twins."

"No, Sam," Dean chokes on his words. They're too powerful to regurgitate. "I mean, like, losing you. Forever."

Sam laughs, but only in confusion. Dean's giving him an ocular pat down and he's about to lose it. "Dean, I really don't get—"

In an instant, Sam feels chapped lips pressing against his own in a flurry of "holy fuck, my brother's kissing me" and 'I Want to Know What Love Is' by Foreigner. Jaded bourbon meets pomegranate chapstick and it's enough to knock the breath out of both their lungs. He's just about to kiss back when Dean pulls away.

He laughs nervously and rubs the back of his neck. The bandages on his arm have been forgotten. "My greatest fear is seeing you walk out that door like you're going to right now."

In his shame, he looks anywhere but Sam's eyes. Six seconds seems like two eternities before the younger tucks his thumb under Dean's chin and sighs.

"De..." he guides his eyes to meet his own. When he sees that familiar green, it's opaque with uncertainty. "Look at me. I-I'm not goin' anywhere, ever. M'kay?"

Dean can only nod before Sam takes the second leap, closing the gap between them once again. They can feel it now: the love, passion, and truth when their lips collide. The kiss isn't lust-filled and blindly sinful—it's soft, careful, loving, and completely safe. It's almost like finding the missing piece of a puzzle in the spot you thought you looked a thousand times. It feels like...like _home_.

They've just begun fighting for dominance when Sam's phone rings and scares the fuck out of them. With just-kissed, plump, and red lips, Sam answers the call while Dean can't stop rolling his bottom lip between his fingers—it tastes like Sam, exactly how he imagined it would.

"Is he still scratchin'?" Bobby's rough voice booms into Sam's ear. He can't help but smile at Dean, who's still grinning like a schoolgirl at prom, but gets lost in the striking visual. "Sam?"

"Huh? Wait—" Now he's really confused. He leans over to ask Dean 'does it still itch?" and after a minute of consideration he shakes his head, much to Sam's relief. "No. He's fine. What'd you do? Trail-blaze the whole warehouse?"

Bobby huffs and abuses the silence for a moment. "Rufus and I dragged that sum'bitch down the road with an iron binding chain to highlight-reel the sucker's death."

"That definitely works, too," Sam absentmindedly takes Dean's hand, earning him a genuine smile from the older hunter. "Thanks, Bobby. We owe 'ya one."

"You owe me a million. But if you want, you can shoot Rufus for me." The redhead chuckles. Sam can hear Rufus yell 'oh, fuck you, old-timer' in the background, and laughs to himself as well. "Alright. Tell your brother to stay out of trouble, 'kay?"

The younger Winchester intertwines their fingers, sighing contentedly. "Will do. Bye."

When he hangs up, the only sound in the room is their own eager breathing. Turns out, neither has to make the 'first' third move, as they're both entirely in sync. In an instant, Sam connects their lips together again. In that moment, both of them realize that they never, ever want this to end. They'll fight for it, kill for it, hell, they'd even die for it. Through all the shit they've dealt with, everything led up to this moment, this spectacular moment, when they can feel each other's lips on their own. 

Dean offers Sam a cheeky nibble on his bottom lip and is both surprised and shockingly aroused by the noise it elicits. In response, the younger wraps his arms around the other's waist and pulls him in closer, deepening the kiss with every movement. When they pull apart to the bitter feeling of emptiness on their tongues, they both can't help but notice how different they see each other now. Instead of an asshole older brother with daddy issues and an inferiority complex, Sam sees Dean as his soulmate, in every sense of the word. Rather than seeing this small child with a too-big flannel shirt, unbuttoned sleeves flapping in the wind outside the car window, Dean sees Sam as the love of his life–plain and simple.

They stare at each other's bitten-red lips and lovingly-disheveled appearances and Dean blushes beet red, much to Sam's surprise and amusement.

"What?" The moose-like figure laughs. His eyes wander down south and he returns his eyes to Dean's with his signature shit-eating smirk. "You got a boner, didn't you?"

Dean's eyes bulge out of his skull and he manages to blush an even deeper shade of red. "What?! No! I just...damn, Sammy. No chick's ever gotten me that excited for a make-out sesh. What the hell, McQueen?"

"Oh, that?" Sam runs slender fingers through Dean's tousled hedgehog hair, which is sticking out in every direction possible. "I just had to scratch the itch."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, you! yes you! thank you so much for reading! and if you just scrolled down to the bottom of the page, you're valid too I guess. 
> 
> while you're here...you can fill me with determination by commenting your favorite bits, least favorite bits, constructive criticism, etc. and/or leave a nice lil kudos! 
> 
> each kudos gives ALL the members of TFW a nice big bear hug, and every comment brings dean one step closer to being pushed out of his glass closet by sam:)


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